Goggles
by Myu-dono
Summary: Oneshot: Matt's new and Mello isn't ready to accept that people do, in fact, wear goggles all the time. MelloMatt.


New arrivals were a frequent occurrence at Wammy's. Here, where very few things mattered, the common saying that every person is somehow unique and distinctive lost its meaning. Most of the new faces that entered through the large mahogany doors were all the same. Features distorted by loss and devastation, fear, sometimes even hysteria almost palpable in the air surrounding their fragile bodies. Toddlers, adolescents ― the whole lot of them; every single one would look broken and about to cry as they unwillingly crossed the threshold of the orphanage. Their leg muscles would spasm, desperate to bolt, to run away ― run from the whole world, and hide ― but this last pitiful attempt to resist the inevitable would subside gradually, rationality numbing the impulses completely. They never had a choice in this matter ― they would be smart enough to realize this. What they would not consider at first, though, was that that exact train of thought, that mental capacity was what had landed them here in the first place.

So, when one chilly afternoon Mello was stretched out comfortably on the windowsill, reading Dante's_ Inferno _― a feeble attempt to find something to occupy himself with, really ― and absently glanced up to see a spot of red and a black-clad escort approaching the main entrance, he went back to his book, indifferent. This gloomy weather was getting to him, restlessness and irritation a constant itch on his skin. He was bored and had no valid explanation for it. How unbecoming. Sure, he was often less reasonable than not, but he liked to think that he was a person of a different caliber, one that could not be aggravated by something so trifling as atmospheric conditions. Redirecting his focus to the epic before him, Mello tried to pinpoint the exact spot where he had left off, idly wondering what had made him look up in the first place.

* * *

The corridors are filled with people, and the echo of Mello's steps drowns in the sea of incomprehensible chatter. There is a significantly larger quantity of those giggling creatures called girls out this evening, he notes, frowning, as he passes them on his way to the library. Mello has never truly understood a single female in his entire life. Unpredictable mood swings, outrageous backstabbing, and their placing appearance before intelligence were never traits he desired in an acquaintance. Then there was also the copious amount of patience involved, and god knows Mello was always more prone to resolving problems with fists rather than words. And so he hastens his steps slightly, imperceptibly, eager to reach his destination and find the comfort of solitude once again.

The doors slide open automatically as he approaches, and sometimes Mello wonders if technology is going to reduce man back to a primitive imbecile one day. The times when the simple motion of rushing to the front to open a door for a lady, an elderly or a superior was considered an admirable trait of a true gentleman, a means of wooing, even, are long forgotten. Inanimate objects are now equipped with sensors and brains, and are even capable of rationalizing. But the silence is waiting for him, and so he wastes no time contemplating something he knows will not under any circumstance affect him personally ― he has never been in danger of loosing his brilliance and never will be.

The deathly stillness of the room engulfs his whole body like a giant wave, the impact knocking out the air out of his lungs. It is all he can do to stop himself from spreading his arms widely and simply standing there, reveling in the feeling of all of his agitation being washed away. No, he is Mello, and losing his composure has never been an option, so he simply strides in confidently, his presence as demanding as ever. This bibliotheca is a rather special place in the House. It is a spacious room with an exceptionally high ceiling, walls painted the soft color of old gold. There is a woolly carpet covering the whole floor and olive cushions strewn about. But the most breathtaking thing that captures your attention the moment you walk in is the insurmountable number of books, arranged neatly against one another in tall shelves. And this magnificent view, this whole area is reserved for Wammy's top students only.

As Mello moves towards his favorite spot, the people he passes nod in silent greeting. His only response to their politeness is a satisfied smirk. Actually, the requirements for visiting the library have been slightly altered. Nowadays, the first and foremost condition is being able to withstand Mello's constant overwhelming presence. He prides himself in this achievement.

He stops in front of one the bookshelves, deciding that today he feels like reading Norse mythology. He has always relished reading mythology and there is just something about the idea of Yggdrasil, a great World Tree, that is at the center of the universe and has the ultimate power of joining completely different realms, that has always captivated him. A moment later he spots the book he is searching for and approaches it, running a careful finger over its spine. Slowly, fondly. He is already so wrapped up in his own thoughts as he turns to leave, it takes him a moment to realize what exactly is stopping him.

There is a boy he has never seen before sitting in one of the cushions just to the left of where Mello stands, his legs dangling loosely over the armrest. He is dressed in a simple black shirt and black pants, but what has Mello staring are the goggles ― why would anyone wear goggles indoors? He also has blazing red hair which somehow perfectly blends in together with the rosewood the bookshelves are made of, which is probably the reason why Mello did not notice this guy the moment he entered.

Mello scowls.

What the hell are those goggles? They look much like the ones that aviators use, but he can't tell from this far away, so he steps forward.

"Hello," he says, and he is every bit of intimidating that he is, because this is his territory, and he isn't fond of surprises.

But then suddenly he is surprised, because the redhead lifts his gaze to meet Mello's without so much as a flinch, and his face is void of emotion, his voice steady and smooth.

"Hello," he whispers back, but Mello barely notices, because for the past fifteen seconds there has been nothing but a single voice screaming bloody murder inside his head, asking ― has he been aware of me the whole time and was just hoping I would go away?

"I am Mello," is his choice of words; his way of asking the kid to identify himself, and he already has a plan forming in his head.

The boy actually gets up ― and he moves with the effortless grace of a feline, Mello notices, filing it for later assessment ― and slowly extends his arm, offering, "Matt." To be perfectly honest, Mello is moving on autopilot by now, because they shake hands ― which is insane, incomprehensible; Mello hasn't shaken hands with a single person in this whole orphanage ― and Matt actually smiles and says something about having to leave now, all of this happening while the only thing Mello can process is the fact that the amber lenses of those goggles make it virtually impossible to tell what the person behind them is thinking.

There is a strange feeling prickling at the back of his throat that doesn't go away even when he tries swallowing. Something between a cough and a laugh, and it is difficult to breathe. But as he watches the unfamiliar boy leaving, logic finally decides to make an appearance.

Mello is curious.

* * *

Every last Friday of the month was a special day to Mello. Some people considered birthdays, anniversaries or holidays special, but Mello's kind of special was different. And that was just fine, because Mello was different ― always had been. He had always searched for the truth and refused to be fed lies; he had found relief in the form of utter exhaustion from hard work. He had never stopped pushing himself forward or lacked motivation, had never succumbed to making pitiful excuses. And he just thought that Christmas was overrated in general.

That is why he felt that evaluation day was truly special. Every time Roger put up the official score chart in the common room, he would be the first one to lay his eyes on it, to gaze at the epitome of his efforts. He would usually experience a vast assortment of emotions that day. Anger, pride, hurt, determination, often ― rage... most definitely rage.

But today, as he stared at the board before him, he was surprised to notice that he couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than shock.

_No. 3: Matt_

That single line was what had sent him spiraling down in to the pits of a dark, wet puddle called confusion. It was unheard of, impossible. Beating an opponent here at Wammy's meant taking a frighteningly large amount of tests, getting interviewed, cross-examined, analyzed to the very bone. After their admittance children were usually distraught, detached and lost in their own world. Some even required assistance, consults. That was why getting designated an actual rank was a procedure that generally took months. Even Mello had needed a few weeks to sort himself out.

A week. One single short week, a goddamn tiny period consisting of seven measly days was all that it had taken this boy to appear from nowhere and settle in third place.

For one fleeting moment Mello had this incredible urge to ask Roger if he had perhaps made a mistake while printing the scores out. But what had stopped him was the undeniable knowledge that mistake was a term unacceptable and virtually non-existent in this establishment.

Suddenly, he was feeling less secure in his spot than he had ever before.

Mello was through the door well before the bout of surprised shouts and whistling echoed down the hallway from the room he had just exited.

* * *

He is staring.

He hasn't paid attention to a single word the teacher has said throughout the whole lesson, but that doesn't matter. Mello has always possessed a habit of studying ahead and by now he could probably give a more efficient lecture on this matter himself. So he stares. He stares at the maroon hair, at the black attire and at the goggles, obscuring most of his face.

Good god, he is drooling. Matt, the newest number three, is asleep and has drool sliding down his chin.

What has gone wrong with world?!

Mello forgets the exact number of times he has asked himself this question the past few days. After discovering what might possibly prove to be competition, he has been carefully observing Matt, examining his behavior, judging his appearance. And yet, no matter how hard he tries, he can see nothing, absolutely nothing special about this child. If anything, he is the most exasperatingly normal boy Mello has ever had to deal with in his short, unfortunate life.

He slacks off, plays video games and nods off in class. He is nice to those around him and looks as though he hasn't a care in the world. But there are little things, minuscule details that, if Mello squints hard enough, show that he doesn't enjoy the presence of others. The single and the most largest proof of this being the goggles that he refuses to remove at any time of the day. Mello has actually gone through many scenarios in his head, searching at first for a valid explanation why a person would place such a barrier between himself and others.

For example, there is of course the chance that the goggles are an inherited family treasure or a memento of some sort. Taking in to account the circumstances regarding how most of Wammy's occupants end up here, it is not unlikely that his parents are deceased and this is the last thing he has to remember them by. It would be only natural ― so pathetically human ― to cling to the only object that represents the past.

The goggles might also be a way to shield and to protect himself. He could be scared, unaccustomed to interacting with people. There are many experiences in this world that leave invisible scars that are never meant to heal. It would be safe to presume that he has difficulty trusting anyone right now, is perhaps even suffering from trauma.

And then there are so many other possibilities such as plain sensitivity to light or maybe shame, or some kind of self-punishment.

But Mello doesn't think any of these reasons truly explain why Matt wears those abominable goggles, why he chooses to hide his eyes behind those optical glass lenses.

And now, Matt is emitting soft sleepy noises that vaguely resemble snoring. Mello glares.

No, Mello thinks Matt is simply a dishonest, lying bastard.

It is obvious, in Mello's opinion, that he is hiding something. Mello doesn't think he is an insecure or an easily frightened person and he clearly has no trouble faking his smiles. It is all so simple ― body language is controllable, emotions are manageable. It might seem like the boy is doing nothing whatsoever to attract attention to himself but has something that magically appeals to everyone. His teachers, the class, even the cook, for goodness' sake. But why, why doesn't anyone stop to think that there is no way to confirm his sincerity? For all they know, he could be lying through his teeth ― and he probably is ― and the goggles would perfectly conceal all of it. The eyes have been called the door to the soul for a reason. But they are all blind, all of them, even Near, enticed by the stunning glow of―

The abrupt sound of the bell proceeds to wake him from his reverie and Matt, too, jumps up; however, too suddenly, it seems ― because he then proceeds to sit back down and clutch his head tenderly, probably waiting for the room to stop spinning.

And Mello is about to leave when he spots a figure leaning casually against the door frame, the sight of the bare feet, slouch and messy ebony hair freezing his insides.

L himself has come to have a private word with Matt.

* * *

Anger is a constant presence in Mello's daily life. It has many uses, really. It can be an outlet for built up stress, a sort of a defense mechanism, a powerful motivator. And yet he doesn't think he has ever previously experienced this particular kind of anger.

Matt is at the library again, doing absolutely nothing. Well, he seems to have a handheld console or some other contraption in his hands, but that is a far cry from what Mello considers a productive way to spend leisure time. Mello can't quite put his finger on what exactly is so unnerving about the boy, but the fact that his proximity is distracting remains. For the past half hour at least, Mello has been completely unable to concentrate on his assignment, his mind preoccupied with producing bitter accusations one after the other. These erratic feelings would then undergo some complex transformation and proceed to find their way in to his circulatory system, entering blood vessels and blending in with the white and red blood cells.

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly at the persistent hum of irrationality under his skin as he eyes the relaxed form of the redhead gamer. Gritting his teeth, he decides that he needs to act before this new, ridiculously acute awareness of the processes going on in his body drives him insane. His feet move on their own.

"What did L want?" he asks, berating himself for forgetting to mask the urgency in his voice as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Matt never takes his eyes of his portable video game. "Nothing much, really," he answers in that unconcerned manner of his. Why is it that Mello can never catch him off guard? "He pro'lly was interested in my high scores."

But of course he was, isn't the whole goddamn House? These past few weeks Mello has heard nothing but "Matt did―" and "oh, did he?" everywhere he went. There were people talking about him in the goddamn men's room and yet here he was, acting as aloof as ever, hiding from his devotees.

Yes, hiding. Mello could recognize his behavior for what it was, because he himself― well, he just could.

"So what did you think of him?" Mello asks again, sliding his hands in to his pant pockets.

There is a short pause and then ― finally ― Matt looks up.

"He was... alright," he says, slowly, uncertainly. Mello can almost see a raised eyebrow behind those vexing goggles, almost. He scrutinizes the boy, unconvinced.

"Alright?" he sneers, shifting his weight from one leg to another. "That is the best description you can come up with after meeting the world's greatest detective, the one man no one can compare to?" L is an extraordinary, practically god-like human being that deserves daily, devoted worship. The only purpose of every child at Wammy's is to try and follow in his footsteps, so how dares Matt make such an understatement.

"Actually," Matt begins, scratching the back of his head absently, "I didn't think he was that impressive."

Mello's mouth is suddenly very, very dry, and there is a strange buzzing in his ears, and he means to ask "What?" ― he really does ― and he opens his mouth to do so, but instead swings his fist straight at Matt's head.

Somewhere deep down inside, where his consciousness hides shyly and mischievously, darting from a dark corner to a darker corner to avoid being caught, he realizes that Matt is the first person ever to have such a great impacton his emotions.

Matt is also the first person ever to dodge his blow.

* * *

The next time Mello sees Matt, he seems to think that the most appropriate way to greet him would be to slam every inch of his own body in to his lanky frame in an exceedingly violent manner.

For once, Matt doesn't appear to be capable of reading Mello's mind via telepathy, hence his slight bewilderment when he finds himself on the ground, a furious Mello straddling his hips. It is mayhaps a lucky coincidence or a carefully designed scheme that the golden haired menace has caught him on his way back from dinner, with every single other occupant of the House still chatting away about their daily adventures.

"What in the bloody hell―" Matt sputters indignantly, squirming, but Mello is well beyond the reach of words as he directs his attention to the sole reason of his frustration.

In one fluid motion, he rips off Matt's goggles and sends them flying towards the wall.

He has hypothesized over Matt's reasoning ceaselessly ― does he adorn them because he wishes to see the world colorless? does his eyes remind him that of his mother's? is it because his hair resembles the color of his parents' blood so much, because it almost looks crimson when the wayward rays of sun illuminate his disheveled locks? or is it because he wants to stay indifferent, because he doesn't want friends ― never has wanted them ― because he doesn't want to explain himself and wants to stay invisible, regular, unnoticeable; or maybe the cold just makes his eyes tear up ― and has wasted every ounce of his self-control in doing so.

"Why, why do you wear them?" Mello practically screams, clutching on to Matt's black shirt ― same black shirt he wears every day ― as if it were a life raft and Mello was drowning; a drowning man.

And then there is silence because Mello's mouth might be moving, but words are no longer poring out.

Matt has the most sincere and at the same time blank, confused, anxious and fiercely red-hot look he has ever seen. This boy, he reflects, is the person that could defy him, that could be his equal. And then, without any warning, a warm feeling explodes in his chest, accompanied with dawning apprehension in regards to his current position and the extremely distressing fact that Matt is downright the most gorgeous boy that he has ever laid eyes on.

"―rectly at the sun," a voice says and it takes Mello a moment to realize that Matt is speaking. He looks up, confused. "I fancy staring directly at the sun a lot," Matt, sensing Mello's befuddlement, repeats again, slower this time. "That's why I wear goggles all the time." He shrugs. "'Tis a bad habit, really, so I figured I might at least do something to keep myself from goin' blind."

At this point, Mello truly needs to say something ― and it sure as hell isn't "well, shit, I didn't think about that one" ― or at least allow the redhead some personal space, but he can't bring himself to do either.

So, his throat parched and his voice cracking, he desperately tries to produce a sound and what comes out is:

"I'm Mihael Keehl, Mail Jeevas."

And he has kind of forgotten that he is not supposed to know ― the same way he was not supposed to pick Roger's lock in his attempt to find out ― and that his own name is also classified information, except who gives a damn when god knows how, but...

Mello is in love.

* * *

End.

12-04-08, 10:20.


End file.
